Blind Spots
by Quintrisha
Summary: Ron reviews. I couldn't decide whether to make this a darkfic or a comedy, so it ends up being something in between. A response to the S.S. Fiery and Forbidden challenge.


Disclaimer: I am in no way affiliated with J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Books, the W.B., Scholastic Books, or any of those other merchandise-selling H/Hrs. I am providing J.K. Rowling with the best vacuum cleaner out there so she can clean up the Potterverse when I'm done with it.  
  


Author's Note: This is dedicated to all of those who lurk and sail the S.S. Fiery and Forbidden at FictionAlleyPark. Thanks go to Jam for coming up with this challenge, and to the Good Ships R/Hr and the S.S. Fire and Ice, for giving me their own little quirks for this piece, which are including but not limited to the Chudley Cave and Britney!Voldie. Any and all double-meanings and terrible puns are meant to be there. The mention of 'Wonder Years' is a tribute to the wonderful show on Nick-At-Nite, _The Wonder Years. _The 'Powerpuff Girl' comment is referring to _The Powerpuff Girls _who, while extremely annoying, fit into that line quite well. Ron not only likes his soaps but enjoys Saturday morning cartoons while he's making breakfast for the kids, as well. 

And… as I cringe inwardly… I wrote Redeemed!Draco. I didn't want to, I can't _stand _Redeemed!Draco… but I told myself, Trish, you're going to write Redeemed!Draco and see what all the fuss is about. So I did. I can honestly tell you that Redeemed!Draco is not all he's cracked up to be. He's like bags at the supermarket: the plastic bags are shinier, handier, and more exciting, but when it comes down to it, the brown ones are sturdier and will get you home. 

Finally, the challenge was to include: 

Fuzzy pink bunny slippers, preferably on a male. At least one child per set of parents. A Weasley Wizard's Wheezes joke. PurpleHaired!Voldie. 

Blind Spots__

Ron Weasley moaned in anguish. His head, oh, his head, how it _hurt—_what could that woman have added into the second edition of _Hogwarts, A History_ that hadn't already been crammed into the first? 

A picture of Lord Voldemort and his circle of Death Eaters, that's what. It was a six by nine 'historical piece' that his most charming son had quickly transformed into a 'comedic artwork' when he'd given the dark lord purple hair, buckteeth, a skimpy private school uniform and a dance routine it performed every hour, on the hour.

The buckteeth had been the hand on the wand, of course. The hand on the wand that performed the Avada Kedavra that killed the dear old husband… those two buckteeth his son Roger had drawn on Lord Voldemort had made him say-- oh, it had been so stupid. _So _stupid to say that Roger's artwork had reminded him of Hermione's pearly whites from their Wonder Years—that she had had teeth like that when she was young, two things sticking out of her like big white slates, ready to take your eyes out. Twenty years into his marriage and he was _still _making those sorts of blunders, letting things slip that the children didn't particularly need to know about… things his _wife _didn't particularly need to know about, when it came down to it. 

Honesty, he decided, was highly under-appreciated. 

Like with his sister and her husband, for example. If she'd just been completely honest with herself and admitted that, in her heart of hearts, Harry was the best bloke for her, she wouldn't be in this mess. Filthy rich with seven kids and a castle, really: that was _not _the life she should be living. She deserved better than a wizard who was willing to give up his family name and prestige to be with her. She hadn't wanted that sort of sacrifice! She had wanted someone who would never have had to, like Harry: plain, simple, if not a bit boring Harry, prancing around the house in his fuzzy pink bunny slippers and cooking her breakfast at two in the morning. She hadn't wanted Draco Malfoy, who would sweep her off her feet and carry her to their bed so they could make love! She had wanted _Harry, _who would sit next to her on the couch and read her to sleep at night. She wanted sweet! She liked sweet. She had always been his bubblegum girl. 

But _no, _she'd had to lie to herself, get that pink bubblegum of hers stuck in her fiery red hair and convince herself that she wanted _Draco Malfoy, _the one who showed up at Dumbledore's Death Day Party dressed as Lord Voldemort and used the Dark Mark as his company logo, just to show how much he didn't give a damn. She told herself that _no, _she didn't want a relationship like Neville and Cho's, she wanted one like his and Hermione's, that never stopped moving! 

As if she could handle something that never stopped moving. Honestly, she was his sister, not some sort of Powerpuff Girl. 

"I want something that'll give me a reason to get up in the morning," she'd told him. "I don't want breakfast in bed, I want a reason to get up and make it myself—to want to make it myself."   

She, evidently, didn't know how much his Hermione would pay for a breakfast in bed every once in awhile.

She didn't know, either, what 'moving' relationships meant. They meant hard work, and spending enough nights in the Chudley Cave to critically damage his eyesight—he wore glasses every now and then, these days, though he'd never confess that his flaming orange carpet and walls and even the ceiling were the reasons why. 'Moving' relationships meant _always moving: _being ready to say you're sorry twenty-four hours a day, forgetting the difference between your study and the backyard: it meant getting bonked in the head by your five year-old daughter who, thanks to Weasley Wizard Wheezes, had conveniently mistaken his father for a cockroach. 

And we all know what the best use of _Hogwarts, A History _is. Ron firmly believed that there wasn't a better insect control system anywhere. 

It also meant watching as that said child went unpunished, since his wife's teeth had only been _slightly oversized _when she was younger, and that they were _perfectly natural. _

Hermione had her blind spots, bless her: and so did Ginny. 

Luckily, he didn't have any of those. All he had was tonight's dinner taking down the swelling on his forehead. 

-*-

The Ones That Didn't Make It: 

Now, I had a very hard time getting a plotline that I could continue until the end… there were several incomplete ficlets on the way. They're down below in their raw form. I haven't edited a single thing. I wrote these at three in the morning… and it shows.

#1. 

Ginny Malfoy looked up at her husband from the kitchen. 

She did not, she repeated, did _not _love him—

But he was just too cute for words. 

He was about to charm the guests of Albus Dumbledore's costume party dressed as Lord Voldemort. 

Which was going to be pretty damned hilarious, if she let herself admit it. The results of his attire weren't going to be good: but, then again, neither of them had wanted that in the first place. 

Believe it or not, their marriage had been one of convenience: Draco had needed someone who would make him come off as reformed, and Ginny had needed a man who was just as rich as she was poor. 

They had gotten along quite well, once Ginny had learned to stop scolding him every time he spat on a muggle child and he learned that cars were off-limits. 

#2. Same one as the above, only better. 

Ginny Malfoy looked up at her approaching husband; feigning disinterest, she told herself over and over again that she did not, she repeated, did _not _love her husband the way she loved Harry. Draco was neither sweet nor kind; sensitive nor sensitive. His kisses were no more comparable to Harry's than his hair color, the way he sharply glared her down didn't make her shiver as greatly as the light hesitation of Harry's touch. 

But the man was just too cute for words. Suppressing her laughter, she watched as he bared his fangs for her, twirled his black robes and removed the hood of his cloak to reveal his shocking purple hair. 

Draco Malfoy was going to walk into Albus Dumbledore's costume party dressed as the Dark and Deceased Lord Voldemort. 

It would shock and appall the lot of them. Resisting herself the indulgence of a grin, she pictured it: her mother would ask what the meaning of this was. Mandy Brocklehurst, the Ministress of Magic, would ask them politely to leave. Harry would go deathly silent, shaking as he backed into the nearest corner, leaving his muggle steady searching for an explanation. Why was everyone so terrified? So outraged? What was so upsetting about a snake-man and his accomplice? They looked like they were right out of a comic book, to her. 

It was pretty damn funny, if she let herself admit it. 

Her lagging faithfully behind him as the iron-armed Peter Pettigrew would be the icing on the cake. 

"Purple hair?" 

He smirked. He enjoyed being the hand that opened the can of worms, and using her as the can-opener. "You never heard? Lord Voldemort tried transforming into a centaur, once: didn't work out. The purple hair was the side-effect. He rather lied it, so he kept it."

"Centaurs don't have purple hair." 

"Would you prefer to believe that he couldn't stand staring in the mirror and being reminded of The Boy With Dandruff?" 

Now she laughed. She loved Harry, her heart would break when she saw a muggle girl on his arm tonight, but she laughed. It flowed, so naturally but so uneasily that… that. That. That. 

Draco, too, seemed to enjoy it immensely, with a pleasure she'd never seen on his face. It was like she was finally his wife, and she wife, and he was finally starting to feel like her husband. That was where her loyalties lay. 

"Are you ready to go, Peter?" 

-*-

Aren't you so glad I went along with the one I did?


End file.
